About ten years ago, I took a week off of work with the goal of completing a long overdue repainting of my house. I was excited to get the project underway; my house was being treated to a complete transformation of color and it was going to look sweet. Of course, something completely off my radar changed my plans entirely.

The second day I was off, the phone rang around 9 pm. It was a friend of my wife’s, stating she urgently needed help.

At the time, we were living in St. Joseph, Missouri, about a hour north of Kansas City. My wife’s friend Jennifer, along with her husband Gene and their children, were in the process of moving from Lee’s Summit (a suburb of Kansas City and an important part of this story) to Omaha, Nebraska, a 215 mile distance. Heading south from Omaha, the transmission in their 3.8 liter Taurus wagon had violently died on I-29. They had managed to limp to a gas station at a nearby interchange before calling.

Upon our arrival, we learned my wife’s friend had given birth to their fifth child just four days prior. It took three trips to get all of them and their stuff back to our house.

The next morning, knowing the Taurus was toast, Gene and I went car shopping on our way to his house in Lee’s Summit. Having recently been laid off–his new job necessitating the move to Omaha–finances were awful for Gene and his wife. The agenda was to find a decent van or minivan on the cheap and obtain a rental truck.

At the first dealer, the only thing in Gene’s price range was a short wheelbase Dodge conversion van. Black with a bluish interior, it looked like a bruise powered by a 3.9 liter V6. Driving it on relatively flat ground yielded a symphony of “WUHHHH” followed by “ummmm” punctuated by another “WUHHHHH” from its incessant downshifting. Pass.

The next dealer had a sinus-infection-green Ford Windstar minivan. It looked fine but the tubing for the rear air conditioning had rotted. Again, he passed and we made our way to the truck rental lot.

The rental was a 28′ box truck on an International chassis, the only one left in that size. It needed to be jump started and had it been human, it would have had bags under its watering eyes along with a severe head cold to distract from its terminal emphysema. It looked just that pitiful. After we made a stop at his realtor’s office, he asked if I would drive the truck back to his house, while he led the way in my ’92 Crown Victoria. Gene was nervous as he had never driven anything that large. I hadn’t either, but realized it would be fun to figure it out while in Kansas City traffic. Adventure is always grand and drivers in Kansas City are relatively courteous. What could go wrong?

Opening the door, I knew why Gene didn’t care to spend any time in the thing. The seat was of a hardy looking brown fabric–except where the 37,825 people who had previously driven the truck had sat. In that area, there were two greasy looking half-moons, a composite of all the butt cheeks pressed into it over the years.

Looking closer, the truck was a 1986 model (this was in 2004). It had a five-speed manual transmission behind its diesel engine, and the odometer was hard to read, but it looked like it read 600,000 miles. It always seemed doubtful that this company ever established any life cycle for their equipment, so this was likely accurate.

After an uneventful trip back to their house through the now defunct Grandview Triangle (a nasty, nasty confluence of interchanges that was the freeway equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle), we parked the rental and headed back to my house in St. Joseph. The new plan was to head back in the morning and begin loading the truck.

Upon our arrival in St. Joseph, Gene and Jennifer conferred in the closed guest room. Mrs. Jason later reports to me the closed door did not muffle the conversation–it seemed since no vehicle had been purchased, we had done absolutely nothing that day. In retrospect, this was her way of alerting me of our exposure to a severe case of postpartum aggression.

Let the fun continue!

Bright and early the next morning, Gene, Jennifer, the newborn and I traveled back to Lee’s Summit. En route, Jennifer called her parents to request their help. As they lived in Perryville, Missouri, about a hour south of St. Louis, it would be a good five to six hours before they arrived. Fortunately, Gene and Jennifer assured me there wasn’t much left in the house to load onto the truck. At this point, the rain was the only downside of the day.

Getting to their house, I told Gene that we should move the rental truck from where it was parked to where we could more easily load it. As I start to scope out the place, I quickly calculated there was no way on earth all of the stuff left in the house would fit onto three trucks, let alone one. Just as I came to this conclusion, I began to hear one side of a heated conversation in the living room. It was time for Jason to be scarce.

“What do you mean, the truck won’t start? You drove it here, did you not? Then why won’t it start?”

Inaudible response.

“What? They had to jump start it? Then why the hell didn’t you refuse it?”

Inaudible response.

“The only one? Dammit, the baby is coming unlatched…Well, they have another outlet. This is Kansas City for crying out loud, they had no others? Call their hotline! This is crazy! This baby is hungry, I need to feed her.”

After I waltzed around looking at all the stuff there was to load, I heard a brow-beaten Gene on the phone.

“I have a truck that won’t start…..’won’t start’ means just that – it will not start…..Do you speak English when not getting paid to do so?……Can you not spell Lee’s Summit? It is ‘L’ as in Lee’s Summit; ‘E’ as in Lee’s Summit; another ‘E’ as in Lee’s Summit – oh, good, you can see it now. Well you have a piece of junk in my driveway and what are you going to do about it?”

Two hours later, Roy the mechanic made his grand arrival. Lo and behold, there actually was another 28′ box truck in Kansas City. The mechanic was driving it and it was full of miscellaneous parts, something I didn’t take as a good sign. For whatever reason, I got to talk to Roy.

His temperament was much like that of a loyal dog who has been kicked in the ribs a lot; eager to help, but a bit scared to do so. As Roy rapidly sensed the stress in the air (having an angry woman with an infant latched onto her breast yelling from the front door was a good indicator), I told him the engine did not turn over and that the solenoid was not clicking. He and I got along famously.

After a little chit-chat, Roy said, “You up for a little adventure?” We concocted a truly redneck plan, to be performed in a very nice neighborhood. While not as brazen as picking your nose and spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco in the presence of Queen Elizabeth, it was in the same general realm. What could go wrong?

I climbed into the butt-streaked seat of the rental truck. Pressing the clutch, the old girl slowly inched down the very slight incline of Gene’s driveway. As the old International stopped just short of the cul-de-sac, Roy eased his identical International around onto the grass, and inched up to the rear bumper of my truck. We were going to pop the clutch and get this beast started.

After Roy started shoving, I waited for a little momentum and popped the clutch. My sudden drop in speed was followed by a violent “POW!” where Roy tagged my truck again. As we pick up speed, getting close to the street side of the cul-de-sac, I popped the clutch a second time, only to hear a sickening grinding noise in return.

At the stop sign, I hopped out and told Gene to follow us in the car. Roy and I decided to go left, deeper into low-speed residential areas with ever nicer, bigger, and higher dollar houses, as we wanted to avoid traffic. He nudged me and we turned left.

As soon as my truck was straight, Roy poured the coals to his. For six tortuous blocks, our game of bumper tag went unabated.

I didn’t realize how much time had slowed down until I eventually realized I was going to experience whiplash right before an intimate encounter with the steering wheel divorced me from my teeth. At this point, I began to notice people on the sidewalk stopping and pointing, aghast at the spectacle of two box trucks playing such a loud and aggressive game of bumper smooching. I quickly realized this was a wonderful testimony to the quality equipment owned by the company whose name was emblazoned on both trucks. Advertising like this didn’t come cheaply.

The drill seemed to last an eternity. Every POW! was followed by another POW! and that sickening grinding. Roy eventually stopped and I climbed out, thinking how delightful a shot of bourbon would be at this point. Looking around, I saw the front bumper of Roy’s truck was bent so badly it was digging into his left front tire. The rear bumper on mine looked marginally better.

Roy was muttering about junky equipment as I walked back to him. He smiled, shook my hand, and said to not worry about charges on the truck. I got in the Crown Victoria with Gene and we drove off, leaving the poor abused International at the curb, never to see it again. That night, Mrs. Jason and I learned of a free condo in Branson where we spent the rest of the week. Gene and Jennifer ultimately hired a moving company, but there remains a certain rental company that causes me to cringe whenever I hear its name.

29 Comments

Don’t you just hate it when you’re trying to help a person out, and the situation just keeps sucking you in deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until finally you find yourself on the side of the road, in some wreck, doing something you just know isn’t going to end well? 🙁

I just have to wonder, though… where was Roy’s battery jump pack during all this? (Or did he not have one, or was the issue not battery-related this time?)

Roy couldn’t jump start it either. He was thinking popping the clutch would work. Wrong.

My wife and I got sucked very deep into this – this is an exerpt. She had her own stories from watching their kids plus our one. This was a three or four day endeavor and I would up loaning them the Crown Vic so they could continue on their merry way. The sanity was worth walking the two miles to work for a week.

Oh, the delights of moving with rental trucks. If the company of which you speak is the one that likes orange and white, my mother rented one of their trucks on a move from Fort Wayne to Lafayette, Indiana in the late 90s. The truck was from the 70s, and my BIL (a farmer with loads of experience in big diesel equipment) was furious about the condition of the truck they stuck us with.

My experience with that company came from some litigation some years ago, and they may have changed their system since. But at the time, if a local franchise holder who got a truck in that needed work, he had a choice – rent it back out and make money or take two men and drive it to a regional repair facility and leave it there. No rental and loss of two guys’ time to get there and back. These trucks became like hot potatoes, rent it to some poor schmuck and let the guy at the next place worry about the truck when it got turned in. There were truly some pieces of crap in those fleets.

I guess the story could have ended worse – they could have bought that Windstar, too. 🙂

My experience with that agency of a certain color has been okay. But, with enough experience in the business world, your story doesn’t surprise me. Makes you think twice about what you are driving or towing – if it looks terrible, it probably is.

I rented a diesel Penske truck, for our move from CA to Eugene, and it was nice except that the throttle was absurdly stiff. My knee started aching after half an hour. No way was it going to take that for 9 hours straight. So I pulled over next to an orchard, and found a stick that I could wedge between the seat and the pedal; cruise control, of a cruder sort. Since it seemed to be governed to a top speed of 65 or so, it worked reasonably well; I just had to be ready to yank it in case of needing to slow down. Saved my knee.

The last truck I rented was a Penske (I didn’t cringe saying that) – thankfully nothing like you describe. It was a GMC one-ton in rather decent shape with 67,000 miles. There were stickers all over it saying it was speed limited to 67 mph – which is correct.

What a great story, too funny. You’d be hard pressed to dream up something like that! Although I’m sure at the time, funny was the last word you would have used to describe your adventure(s). Heck of way to spend your holidays.
But that said, painting houses isn’t real high up there on my wish list of chores to do. If it were me, I’d take the moving adventure first.

Ive rented a few furniture moving trucks usually the cheap little shitboxes available at gas stations one was memorable in the part where the clutch engaged about 2mm from the floor in or out no slip permitted, so I simply didnt use the clutch once moving they do not recommend that for syncromesh transmissions, tough, next time adjust the clutch properly, We only used it to move my X and daughter across town great fun through numerous traffic lights NOT, The truck? A shitbox Toyota Dyna.

Why do they not recommend that for syncro transmissions? When I had stick cars I only used the clutch for starting out. I was able to go up (and down, little tougher since you have to blip the gas) without using the clutch. I thought i was saving clutch wear and since there were no gears grinding, I thought no damage was being done.

Right off the floor is much better than right at the top of the pedals travel. I have for the last five months been running a 99 international 4900 with the dt466 and a 19′ roll back flat deck. The clutch is nuts and has a mind of its own, after adjustingvit several times it engages right in the middle of its travel which may last through that day or for a month, and will randomly end up at the top of the pedal.

Since New York has safety inspections I know of a few people who take the U-Haul they just rented and get it inspected either paying the full $21 each time or cutting a deal with the person especially if it is a friend who might want some Butternut Squash. The local U-Haul rental shop is not happy about this practice especially when three of their trucks fail inspection. One factor U-Haul does not care about or expect is their trucks rusting in the Snow Belt since I have seen a few U-Hauls with jagged door bottoms and rotted Rocker Panels as well as cab corners. In New York City the Riverdale Bronx U-Haul rental shop is behind Razor Wire, but most of the vehicles are tagged and dented to various degrees when a renter takes them into the wild. I wonder why U-Haul has never had Dodge based U-Hauls?

There are a few ex-U-Hauls around here in Portland and I think the Diesels and Toyotas have a better survival rate compared to the gassers. Where I grew up in New York the farmers like them and sometimes the new owner paints the Orange a different color. I have even seen a U-Haul where the cargo area is reduced in half and the back half is now a stake bed which is pretty damn clever. Also have seen ex. U-Haul trucks with a different unit bolted behind the cab and have seen ex. U-haul boxes mounted on trucks that never were a U-Haul. Only time my folks rented a U-Haul was to return some defective wood flooring and the GMC 17 footer was not bad except for its horribly yellowed headlight plastic. I rode in the bitch seat and there were foot prints on the windshield from people putting their feet on the dashboard.

As a former long time fleet manager, I can guess why U-Haul doesn’t use Dodge trucks. It’s the same reason most fleets avoid them. They are built to last the warranty period and then they self-destruct. U-Haul has a terrible reputation for badly maintained equipment, but I would not want to be the guy responsible for the logistics of insuring that each unit gets it’s regular PM given the widely varying quality of both dealer service and customer driving skill. That’s no excuse for running junk, but I really do wonder how they keep up with any sort of PM program. The last trailer I rented here in BC had Oregon plates and it’s last inspection sticker (a year out of date) was from somewhere in Mexico. It’s probably in Alaska or Florida or Quebec or…. by now.

Quite the comedy of errors. The company with the white and orange trucks seems to generate a lot of interesting stories.

When we moved, the new house was only about 15 minutes away. I have a pickup truck, so I figured we’d just rent a big covered trailer for a weekend to tow behind the truck, and commandeer some friends to help us move.

When I went to pick up the trailer, they had lost my reservation and said I could only rent it for one day because it was already booked for the second day I wanted it. Grrr….

The trailer had surge brakes, but they were locked in a non-functional state. I decided it would be best if I did not attempt to fix them. If we had had to go on the highway I might have been concerned though.

When I rented from ‘the-national-orange-and-white-company-that-shall-not-be-named’ this Wednesday, the Ford van had 12,000 miles on it and other than being dirty seemed to be in good shape. It was quite a contrast from the last time I rented there in 2003. It was a tired Nissan pickup with a cube box where the bed should be. It was an automatic with overdrive. Top speed on the level was about 55 mph and anytime there was an incline, a slight rise in the road, a 1% grade it went straight from OD into third. For 230 miles. Total shitbox and the brakes pulled harder to the right the more you stayed on them.

I hate painting in general but my house makes me hate it even more. My house it’s all concrete but all the walls inside and out are finished in textured stucco. Depending of the color you are going to use, you need primer plus 3 or 4 minimum coats of paint using a good roller. I really hate painting, thank God that my wife it’s really good at it, so most of the time I am the helper painting the places she cannot reach and retouching the places were the paint didn’t completely got through.

Haven’t rented a lot of trucks, but have had bad experience with both of them. On a run from NY To Richmond VA in a 24-footer, the tranny started slipping badly around Baltimore. I drove it to Richmond like that. There was no way I would or could unload that thing by myself and put all our household goods in another iffy truck, also by myself. Moving my son from NY to Tuscaloosa in a box van, the check engine light came on near Carlisle PA. Drove that one like that to Tuscaloosa too and for the same reason. Also barely made it that time. Neither truck was in any condition to rent to someone else, but I don’t know if they were repaired or put right back on the road.

I think the reluctance of people who use rented trucks to unload and reload is one factor that contributes to the poor condition you often find when renting these turkeys.

We rented from the Orange and White guys only once, back in 1995. We were promised a one ton cube with automatic and a/c. What we got was a 1973 F-350 cube, four speed and no a/c, no power steering or brakes either. I should mention that at this point in life, I’d never driven a stick shift before. Let me tell you, learning stick on that baby on the Friday afternoon of the July long weekend was an experience. I actually made the traffic reports on the TV as I bucked and stalled my way across Edmonton. Slipped that clutch so bad the truck stank for hours after I parked it in front of our townhouse, by the time I dropped it off Sunday afternoon the clutch would slip if you gave it more than half throttle. Serves ’em right for giving me that deathtrap after what they promised…